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MtDiabloFire

The woman who shot Satan is having a really bad day…

Chuck Wendig’s latest flash fiction challenge began last week, when he asked writers to write the opening 200 words of a story.  It continues this week with the assignment of choosing one of last week’s openers and taking it another 200 words down the road.  In another few weeks, there’ll be a plethora of 1,000-word stories shouting Read Me! all over the web.

I chose an opening posted by Kyra Dune on her blog, The Shadow Portal.  The *** shows where her opening left off and I took over.  Enjoy!

Accidental Apocalypse
When I shot Satan I thought it would be the end of Hell.  What actually happened isn’t my fault, really.  Okay, maybe it is my fault, technically, but I think I deserve some leeway in the blame department on account of intent.

I was trying to do God a solid by getting rid of the Devil. See, I’ve been a fallen angel a really, really long time and it was starting to get old. So I thought, what the heck, I’ll get back into the big guy’s good graces by ridding humanity of the temptations of evil. Turn Earth back into Eden and all that. I didn’t mean to start the Apocalypse.

***
I’d gone by Chuey’s chop shop on Alvarado to get the piece.  A few years ago, I’d taken out a hellhound that was trying to drag his ass down to the Tartarus Gate after he’d knifed some dude outside a bar in Ensenada.  He owed me, seeing as how I’d saved him from eternal damnation and all.  Well, not saved exactly, more like delayed – Chuey being Chuey, it was a sure bet that he was going to end up fist-bumping the Devil someday;  I knew it, he knew it, and the Devil knew it.  Anyway, when I told Chuey I was going to off the Devil, the combination of gratitude and enlightened self-interest scored me the sweetest little 9mm south of Echo Park.

“You sure you know what you’re doin’, Chica?” he asked, handing me the gun, wrapped in a grease-covered mechanic’s rag.  “I mean, can that dude even die?”

“Sure he can,” I replied, tossing the rag on the fender of a Porsche 911 that was in the process of losing its VIN number while I stuck the gun in the waistband of my red leather skirt and covered it with the hem of my blouse.  “You just have to know where to hit him.”

And when it came to the Devil, I’d spent enough time in the old lech’s company that I knew just how to hit him where it hurt.

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